


Little Slice of Hell

by whimsicality



Series: Good Intentions [2]
Category: Roswell (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hell, Not Happy, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicality/pseuds/whimsicality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some conversations linger. Companion/Follow-up to Conversations with the Damned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Slice of Hell

_"The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."– John Milton_

Hot. He was so hot that he thought he could hear the sizzle of his brain as it broiled in his skull. Tired, exhausted, he was beyond exhaustion. He hadn't slept since the tearing, slicing claws of the hell hounds dragged him down into the pit, a period of time too long to count and too short to bear; there was no sleep in hell. The need for it though still remained, a constant burning ache until you wept for the need to rest, even for a moment. But no matter how long you closed your eyes, how long you were left alone, you never slept.

Maybe it was for the best. His dreams had been of hell even before he was a permanent resident, and he couldn't imagine that his dreams while in the pit would be of anything more pleasant. So instead he was reduced to the replay of his own worst memories and darkest fears, even when he was alone in his head, with no demons fucking with his psyche willy nilly, at least as far as he knew. You never really knew, not here. One thought in particular had stuck out lately; one face, one word – Queenie. It nagged at him, sparking a curiosity that should have been snuffed out long ago, but had somehow remained.

The demons called him Winchester, Hunter, words used to remind him of his identity, of his failure, of who he was, and who he would never be again. So why Queenie? It meant something, of that he was sure; cruel and chaotic demons were, but they weren't stupid, and especially here, every word that fell like poison from their lips had a purpose, was part of the game. It was foolish to wonder, a useless and pointless train of thought, possibly even playing into their plans, whatever they were. But given the choice between obsessing over his own mistakes, or someone else's, he'd pick the latter, even if it was an unanswerable mystery.

Distractions didn't last long in hell though and he'd long since forgotten about a flash of dark eyes as empty and weary as his own; forgotten the theories he'd developed about who she was, what she was, why she was here, all failed attempts to escape a reality that he would 'live' for the rest of eternity. Until one day/night/whatever, he looked down to see his victim for the day, and felt the hollow place where his soul used to be flicker when he saw her face, glimpsed only once, but seared forever into his memory.

Those eyes, achingly familiar, stared back at him, no hint of reproach or fear. Instead they reflected his own eyes back at him; his own pain, his own guilt, his own soul-crushing regret, and he felt his hands still on the gleaming metal instruments, still damp with blood, blood he'd spilled. "Liz," he whispered, her real name, a whispered confession, coming back to him.

Her cracked, crimson-stained lips quirked into a bitter smile. "Hello, Dean."

He reached out, empty handed, and brushed her sweat-matted hair off her forehead, the feel of her dry, feverish skin sending a jolt through him, his heart, an organ he'd almost forgotten he had, thumping irregularly in response. "Why Queenie?" he asked, words spilling out unbidden. Her head tilted to the side as she stared at him before her smile softened and suddenly he was somewhere else. Images, vivid and intense, flashed through his mind, a staggering four lifetimes, condensed into minutes –- love, pain, sorrow, loss, war, and death, so much death.

His hand fell away from her face, memories he'd repressed, faces he'd ignored, emotions he'd forgotten, stirring to life and beating against the walls he'd been forced to build. Bile and shame rose up his throat that he'd given in after one life while she still suffered after so many tries. Queenie; the demons meant it to mock, to hurt, but she'd earned that title, and he was no longer worthy of his, a nameless, soulless creature, as vile as any he'd hunted and killed.

A sudden, burning pain erupted on his skin, searing through flesh and bone until it set his soul on fire. Liz's eyes widened, locked helplessly on his as her mouth curved into a shocked O, and then she was gone, everything was gone, and he was gasping for breath and clawing at a small wooden box, heart pounding painfully in his chest and head spinning.

Later, once he'd crawled out of his own grave, dirt, sweat, and blood staining his skin, and stared at the sun he'd never thought he'd see again, he wanted to weep, weep that somehow he was free and she wasn't. Wanted to scream furiously at whoever/whatever had saved him that he didn't deserve it, that they should send him back, put the monster back in its cage.

But no one answered and so he started to walk, the memory of haunting brown eyes and four lifetimes worth of not giving up spurring him on, even as they made him sick for what should have been, and what would never be.

Cold. He was always cold now, blood flowing through his veins like ice. Tired, exhausted, he was beyond exhaustion. Every night he dreamt of Hell, dreamt of her, and every night woke up muffling his screams and swallowing vomit to prevent questions he couldn't, wouldn't, answer. Sam would never understand why he wished for sleepless, unbearable heat, why he missed screams and pain and hopelessness. Because Liz had been right, there was nothing, on Earth or in Hell, worse than the hope he felt every time he saw a head of dark hair or saw a flash of chocolate eyes.

Nothing.


End file.
